


In the Blue

by janescott



Category: American Idol RPF, Glam RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV Second Person, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-08
Updated: 2010-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-10 10:55:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janescott/pseuds/janescott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A/N: ~Jon is a real friend of Tommy's, whose real name is Cristian. He was ~christened ~Jon before we found out what his real name was, and for me it stuck - lol. Um. Tommy has to figure shit out. Yeah. That'll do.<br/>Unbeta'd and any and all errors are mine. Um. Second-person POV. My first and probably only second-person fic. This damn thing nearly ENDED me when I wrote it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Blue

**Author's Note:**

> None of these people belong to me

You didn't expect this. This – this rush. This fucking – you don't even know what to call it any more.

A few months ago, you knew what your life was. The shape of it. What it looked like, inside and out. You never even had to think about it. You had your band, and you had your girlfriend, and okay, yeah, you had to work a shitty job at a shittier bar to make your bills, and shared a fucking dive of an apartment because that was all you could afford, but you _knew_ it.

But now. The shape of your life – everything that you thought you knew about it – has changed so much that sometimes you don't recognise it at all.

Everything changes for you with one phone call. Your cousin calls one day, and you're pissed because you have to work that night and it's fucking _early_.

"Dude, get over it," she says, sharp and too awake for your head. "I have got the perfect gig for you." And yeah, that gets your attention, because honestly, things have stalled a little bit. Another band has just folded, all of you scattering, and no bullshit, it's discouraging.

You'll be 28 in October, and your girlfriend is starting to give you _that look_ and you feel trapped, and on the verge of making some kind of fucked-up deal: _give me till I'm 30,_ you nearly offer her, because, fuck if you haven't made it by the time you're 30 ... but nearly-28 feels kind of old and burnt-out and maybe you should just ... you shake your head and flick the switch on the coffee maker – secondhand, beaten up and temperamental, but fuck, you need coffee just to function.

"What's the gig?" you ask, waiting for the machine to give you what you need.

"You know the guy off Idol? The guy who did that fucked-up Ring of Fire? With the voice? He's putting a band together. They're auditioning for a bass player. A real gig, Tommy. Not one of your bullshit heavy metal bands that break up after a few months. _A real gig_."

And you want to say, "fuck you," because those bands had been fucking real at the time, and all your dreams were the same. But like the shirt or the bumper sticker or whatever says, shit happens.

"The guy off Idol," you repeat, as the machine grudgingly bubbles to a stop and you take a mug out of the cupboard, sorting through your memories, because you don't _watch _ Idol normally, but you had watched it at Sherri's one night - "Jeff Buckley," you say suddenly, remembering, pouring coffee, thick and black, and taking a careful sip.

"Yeah. I mean ... yeah. The Jeff Buckley guy. Adam Lambert. Auditions are in a week, Tommy. Check your email – I sent you the details. Make yourself pretty and get your ass down there."

Your cousin hangs up without saying goodbye, like she always does; like she's in a hurry, but you don't mind that. You're used to that. You snag your room-mate's battered laptop and boot it up, the caffeine kicking into your system as you check the time on the screen when the display goes up. Fuck. Fuck. You switched shifts so you start at 11 tonight, and it's fucking 11 in the morning, and you wanted to get more sleep than this before you meet Sherri at the mall later on, because she's helping you find a birthday present for your mom.

So you google Adam Lambert and holyfucking_shit!_. Yeah. Guy can sing all right. Fuck. But the fame thing ... that's a little ... weird. But – what if one of your metal bands had hit it big somehow? Fame goes with it. With music. Music and fame. Fame and music.

You hit YouTube and go through a bunch of tour performances, just watching, and listening. And holyfuckingshit, who _sings_ like that now? And you – you could be in on that. You could be in on Lambert's ride. Music and fame. Fame and music.

You slide your fingers over your phone, that you had to ask your Mom to help pay the bill for last week, and that's really what decides you. You're nearly 28. Your last band broke up for yet another bullshit reason. You can fucking _see_ the white picket fence and the soul-crushing job in your girlfriend's eyes. And you still need your mom's help with the bills. _A real_ gig, your cousin said. Meaning a _paying_ gig. She's a singer. She gets it. Mostly.

You tap in your email and yeah, there it is. All the details that she's somehow unearthed. Right at the bottom is _You can do this. Call your mom. I love you. C._

You'd been close as kids – getting into all kinds of trouble, as Claudia was the biggest tomboy, like, ever. It had been her fault you broke your arm when you were 10, after she dared you to walk along the points of the picket fence on your neighbour's house, and the fence was kind of high, and you landed on the concrete of the driveway ...

Taking a deep breath, you scroll your numbers, because the audition's fucking _miles_ away, and you don't have a car.

"Do you know what fucking time it is, Tommy Joe?" and fuck, you forgot. Jon's working tonight too.

"Sorry. Want me to call back?"

Jon grunts and grumbles but says, "Nah. 'M awake now, fucker. What d'you want?"

"Need a favour. There's an audition next week. Could be a big deal."

"Need a ride, Tommy Boy," Jon says, mocking and a little dirty, but you're used to that. You _like _ that sometimes, when you can stand to admit it to yourself.

"Yeah, is that okay?" You trace patterns, music notes, on the kitchen table over and over again, waiting. You know Jon's going to say yes, but you also know he kind of gets off on being an asshole, so you let him.

"Whatcha gonna give me Tommy Boy? If I give you a ride? Gonna ask nicely?"

You stop tracing notes and take a drink of coffee, shivering a little. Fuck. Fuck Jon. You could take the bus ... scrape together money for a cab, maybe ... sighing, you say "Stop fucking calling me Tommy Boy, okay? You know I hate that."

Jon just laughs, easy and a little too wild. "Nice way to ask for a ride _Tommy Boy_. But sure. I'll take you. What's it for?"

And you tell him, half-expecting him to laugh, or take the piss, because whatever Adam Lambert's going to be doing, it sure as shit probably won't be anything like the other bands you've been in. But Jon just says, "Holy shit, seriously? The guy who did that Ring of Fire thing? Yeah, yeah. I'll take you. Tell me when and where, Tommy."

You're relieved, more than you should be, because you knew Jon would say yes. He always says yes.

Your room-mate gets up, yawning and pouring coffee, asking what you're doing up so early, aren't you working tonight?

You half-shrug, and debate not telling him, but you're friends of a sort – people who have been thrown together that get to sort of like each other even when you have nothing in common. He works a 9-5 day job; the kind you know Sherri wants you to get and you just fucking can't, but maybe this Lambert thing will pan out ... "Claudia rang. Found out about an audition for me."

And you tell him the details, already a little weary of repeating yourself even though you know you're going to be doing that a lot over the next few days. What you're going to say if you need to _defend_ yourself, you don't know.

But Dave just says, "That's great, Tommy. Good luck. Break a leg? Anyway. I'm going to the store. We're low on ... everything. Need anything?"

You shake your head and ask if he wants money, kind of hoping he says no, because you owe Jon money, your mom, your boss ... Dave, probably, too – the list goes on. But Dave just pats you on the shoulder and says, "Nah. Tell you what – you get this gig, you can buy groceries for a year. Deal?"

"Deal," and you're more relieved than you should be. You shuffle back to bed, waking up two hours later to the fucking phone again, and _fuck_ "Sherri. Shit, I'm sorry I -" but she cuts you off, because you were supposed to meet her half an hour ago and where the fuck are you, it's your mom's birthday we're shopping for ... and you're out of bed, moving, moving, moving.

You duck under the shower, fast, pull clothes on, find change for the bus somehow, and just make it, racing into the mall where Sherri's waiting in the food court, the remains of a burger and fries in front of her.

"I'm sorry. Claudia rang at, like, 11 and I switched my alarm off when I went back to get some more sleep ..." Sherri leans forward and kisses you briefly; she tastes like ketchup and onion rings and she smells like that indefinable thing that makes you think of apples for some reason. Shampoo probably, although you've never asked.

"It's fine. Shall we?"

You force a smile, because she's helping you out here, but you take her hand reluctantly and you would rather be _anywhere else right now_. You tell her about the audition when she stops in front of a jeweller's – looking at earrings, but you can see, fucking _see_ her eyes drifting and your skin feels itchy as your fight-or-flight response kicks in.

You watch her reaction, but she just pulls a face. "An audition? That's all? Not even a job yet?"

You drop her hand and say, "Yeah. An audition. But it could be -"

"Could be, Tommy. _Could_ be. I mean – I love you but I don't know how much longer I can do this, you know?"

Sighing, you scratch your hand through your hair, the fringe long and unruly now; you make a mental note to get a haircut before the audition – you think that maybe Dave will let you slide on the bills for a little longer ...

You want to say: _do what?_ or _if you really loved me ... _ which is worse, but what you do say are the words that you don't expect to come out in the middle of the fucking mall of all places:

"I think we should break up."

She freezes and turns in near slow-fucking motion, her dark eyes wide. "What? I didn't mean that, I meant it was time to -"

"Can we go somewhere else? We need to talk." Now that the words – the words that have been heavy on the tip of your tongue for weeks – are out there you're relieved. You feel like you can breathe again. You follow her to her car, and it's not ideal, but she just sits in the driver's seat, staring at you, her eyes wide and bright with tears.

"I just meant we should, you should, it's time to -" she takes a deep breath and okay, you do hate yourself a little bit, but you've started now. "I'm sorry it came out like that, but I've been thinking it for a while. I'm sorry. I can't – be what you want me to be. I need to – I need to see this through, and I need to know, and I'm really not ready to get married and _I'm sorry_."

And it's awkward as fuck, and awful but you're still just relieved when she drops you off at your building. You can see the display of her phone as she calls her best friend as she pulls away, and you take a deep breath before braving the six flights because the fucking elevator's always broken.

The apartment's empty, and you're thankful for that. Fucking Saturday and you have to fucking work, and you're aware of your shitty timing with Sherri, but _fuck!_

You're surprised to see it's still only mid-afternoon, because it feels like days and days have passed since Claudia's phone call.

Sleep calls and you crawl under the sheets, only waking up when your phone blares out with Jon's ringtone, loud and sudden. Fuck. "_Fuck!_" you say, into the phone, scrambling out of bed and thank fuck you slept in your clothes because Jon's downstairs and laughing like a fucking hyena.

"Speed it up Tommy Boy, or I'll go without you!"

"Fuck you," you mutter, searching the floor for the fucking – seriously? - lime green t-shirt that all the staff at – seriously – Lime have to wear. Shitty bar, shitty job ... you need to get that fucking _ gig_.

Dave's door is closed, but you can hear laughing – girlfriend, and shit Sherri – skitters through your mind like pinballs being bowled as you clatter down the stairs and outside where Jon's leaning on his car door, smoking and grinning.

"Ready for another night of bullshit, Tommy Boy?" Jon asks, flicking his smoke into the gutter.

You shrug, and say, although you don't mean to, "I broke up with Sherri today," and you're still kind of dazed by it all. You should feel worse about it than you do; you know that much.

Jon flicks you a quick look as he pulls out on to the road. "Yeah? You okay?"

You lean back against the seat and close your eyes. "Yeah. Relieved mostly."

Jon doesn't say anything else. He drops you off at the bar and says he'll pick you up at 6.

Your shift at the shitty bar in the shitty part of town goes as you'd expect and by 6am you're helping sweep broken glass and mopping puke up off the floor.

Jon comes in, having charmed one of the other bartenders, whose name you keep forgetting (Sarah? Sharon? Alice? Donna?) into letting him in, even though the bar closed a couple of hours ago.

He pulls a face at the mess, but pitches in, and soon you're in Jon's car, heavy-lidded and half-asleep. "Your place or mine, Tommy Boy?" you hear Jon ask through a thick filter of almost-sleep. And this is the other good thing about Jon, fucked up and insane though he may be, he knows you. He knows you inside and out.

"Yours," you say, your voice rough with exhaustion.

Jon turns the corner and doesn't say anything until he parks in the garage at his apartment building. It's nicer than yours, and the elevator works, and you are so fucking _tired_. "C'mon Tommy Boy," Jon says, hauling you out of the car, and you just lean on him because that's what you do, and it's easy to slip into this with Jon.

You discovered girls when you were 12. Well, Jackie Trent, who was the first girl in your class to grow curves. And you were fascinated. You weren't the only one. Suddenly she looked like she was harbouring secrets under her clothes and you – you _wanted_ without knowing quite what it _was_ you wanted.

Boys ... that came later. Junior prom, to be exact, if you're tripping down memory lane while you're leaning against Jon in the elevator, both of you smelling like alcohol and sweat and stale smoke.

You'd gone with – yes – Jackie Trent. The first girl you ever jerked off to, when you figured out that your dick could do more than just go up and down at will. She asked you, too. Score one for tiny, scrappy, mouthy little Tommy Joe. Getting one of the hottest girls in school. And Jackie Trent was on a mission. She was determined, at the tender age of 16, to lose her virginity. To you.

A plan you were totally on board with. Then Mike Jarvis happened. Mike Jarvis. Track star. All-round good guy. A-student. You fucking hated him on principle. All of your friends did. With his floppy blond hair and his green eyes, and the girls hanging off him like fucking trophies ... junior prom.

You'd snuck out the back with the lone, wilted joint you'd saved for tonight, trying to hold off until you were alone with Jackie later on, and she had been ... determined. Focused. Like fucking you was on her life list or some bullshit.

Turned out she had a bet with her best friend Amy Benner to see who could lose their virginity first. All sixteen-year-old Tommy heard was: sex. With a girl. _Score_. And then Mike Jarvis came along. You'd checked for teachers before fumbling in your pockets for the joint and a lighter; lighting up and savouring the first hit of the smoke – holding it in for as long as possible before letting it out in a long, fragrant stream.

"Care to share?" a voice said, too close, and you jumped. Fucking _jumped_.

You turned your head and there he was. Mike Fucking Jarvis. His tux all rumpled and shit, but on him it looked good, while on you – it looked like you'd borrowed your older brother's clothes for a night out. If you'd had an older brother.

"Uh – I guess? It's all I got left though." No money to get any more until God-knows-when which was why you'd been saving this one. But Mike Jarvis just quirked his upper lip, like he thought he was fucking Elvis or some shit.

He took the joint from you and – seriously? Track? Shouldn't have been smoking – before taking a drag, slid his hand around the back of your neck, saying "Wouldn't want to waste it. Shotgun," and before you could move, or process or – fuck. _Mike Jarvis had his mouth on yours_. Blowing smoke back in, touching your tongue. _What the fuck?_

You should have been outraged. You should have pulled away, kicked him – something. Anything. But you stood there. Rooted to the spot. Mike Jarvis' mouth on yours. Just touching at first, and then – he kissed you. Like – for real. Like you kissed Jackie Trent, in the back seat of her Daddy's car; one hand tangled in her long brown hair, the other under her shirt, looking for – Mike. Fucking. Jarvis.

His hands on your shoulders and you just stood there. At least – until you kissed him back, putting your hands on his hips, not as surprised as you should have been to encounter flat planes and hard muscle instead of softness and curves.

When you're being most honest with yourself now – when you're with Jon – you can admit you fucking liked it. A lot.

Mike pulled back first, putting one long finger to his mouth, his lips still wet, his bottom lip pushed out into an almost-pout, and you wanted to kiss him again, and maybe – but he just handed you back the joint – which had gone out, and he was gone.

_Don't tell anyone_ was what he meant by that little gesture. Yeah. Like you were that fucking stupid.

You pinched the end of the joint carefully, your taste for it kind of gone, and headed back into the prom, looking for Jackie, who was more than ready to leave.

You couldn't process or deal with what Mike Jarvis had done, so you set it aside, and fucked Jackie in the back of her Daddy's car, like she wanted, and it was no great hardship. Sixteen and horny will always be the same, and she was fucking gorgeous at 16 – curvy, with creamy skin, and a laugh like ... bells or some shit. Shakespeare would know, you thought vaguely as you slid in to her – trying to take it slow and be careful, but you were a virgin too, and Mike Fucking Jarvis had – it was over embarrassingly fast, and you wanted to apologise, but Jackie just adjusted her dress, patted her hair and kissed you.

"Thank you," she said, whispering it against your mouth, and you could feel her smiling and you knew it would be okay.

She broke up with you a week later. Mike Jarvis started dating Jackie's friend Amy, and you knew there was some kind of fucked-up, cosmic joke in there somewhere but you couldn't see the punchline.

You were 17, the first time with Jon.

"Shit," you say now as Jon tips you on to his bed and pulls your shoes off like you're fucking drunk. "We've been – it's been, like, 10 years. Fucking shit."

Jon collapses on the bed beside you and stares at the ceiling and he has no fucking clue how badly you envy him. He's just – out there. Honestly, Jon will fuck anything pretty that stands still long enough. He just doesn't _care_ what people think of him.

You – you compartmentalised this when you were 16. You discovered girls first. Therefore: you like girls. The thing with Mike Jarvis, and Ben Stack, and then Jon ... just – deviations. And, okay, the deviation with Jon has lasted way, way longer than you thought it would, but most of the time – 95% of the time – Jon's just your friend.

But yeah. Girls. Because – and this is you being brutally honest – it's easier to be with a girl. No one questions it. No one calls you a fag, or puts you in the emergency room with stitches in your face, because you'd been making out with some pretty boy on the dance floor of some sticky club ... you turn your head enough so you can see the small scar high up on Jon's cheek, just under his eye.

He turns his head to look back at you, his eyebrows raised. "Ten years? You want flowers or some shit, Tommy Boy? Take you out to dinner? Dress you up real pretty ..." Jon moves lighting fast until he's straddling you, pinning you to the bed, and you roll your hips up because, fuck, it's been a while, but ..."How much of an asshole does it make me if I let you fuck me the day after I break up with my girlfriend?" you ask, shifting again, but not trying to push Jon off either.

Jon pulls a face like he's thinking about it. He's got a pretty finely-tuned asshole-meter when he's not being distracted by pretty, dirty things. "Pretty big asshole. Not as big of an asshole if you'd done it while you will still together, but ... yeah. Fuck. Cockblocked by the ex."

You laugh as he rolls off, and when you both wake up a few hours later, Jon locks the door of his room and fucks you anyway, your face turned so you can see him behind you, rolling your hips up when the friction on your cock is too much, and he's _right there_, and fuck. Yeah.

You dig your hands in to Jon's sheets, curling them tight and oh _God_. You arch up because, fuck, if you don't – "Wait – wait," Jon's voice is nearly breathless in your ear and, fuck "Fuck, Jon ... c'mon ... " and then his hand is right there curling around your cock, tugging on it rough and clumsy as he starts to lose his own rhythm, his hips stuttering and his forehead pressed to the back of your neck as he comes, and then you're going over the edge too, spilling hard and long over Jon's hand and the sheets.

You lie side by side, staring up at the ceiling, and you feel – okay. Good even, maybe. Better, anyway.

"You are so washing my sheets, Tommy Boy," Jon says, before rolling out of bed, carelessly pulling on the nearest pair of pants, which – "Those're mine," you say, lazily turning on your side, but Jon just flips you off and heads for the bathroom, leaving you in the sticky mess, not feeling half as bad, or maybe even guilty about it as you should.

The rest of the week is a rush, and the audition and your birthday are both looming in the near future. Jon and Dave pool resources for your haircut, tracking down the cousin of some friend of Dave's who works in some posh salon as the dude who sweeps the hair off the floor, but moonlights in his spare time.

Takes a bit of getting used to and the fucking fringe drives you nuts, but – "Looks good on you, Tommy Joe," Jon says, ruffling his fingers through your newly dyed, long black fringe. "Lambert's gonna _love_ it."

And that. That wasn't the point. Not really. You get it. You're 5'7 on a good day, and you weigh 110 pounds soaking wet if you're lucky, which puts you squarely in the "Adam Lambert's type" box, based on what you've seen online of his exes. But. Music. Fame. It _has _ to be about the music.

You try not to think about your birthday (you go out, get hammered and go home with some girl you've never seen before, and have to call Jon for a ride because you end up in wherethefuckamiland – not the best birthday ever, not the worst), and you try not to think about the audition, but when you get into the audition room, and you meet Adam Lambert, looking him in the eye for the first time, you know one thing: You. Are. _Fucked_.

He looks at you – in your black jeans and black t-shirt, taking in the black polish and the eyeliner, the tattoos and the hair - and yeah, there are guys out there who've put liner and polish on to impress him or some shit, but you've been doing this for a long time, and it's nothing new to you.

You meet his eyes easily enough but there's something about the _way_ he's looking at you that tilts your world a little bit: like you're at the top of one of those crazy rides that are just really, really long dips down, and you feel like that – like you left your stomach at home and your heart is trying to climb out of your throat.

You fucking hate those rides.

The rest of the band is there as well, and you play for them, and then play with them, and yeah. _Yeah_. This could fucking work. This could really be it for you. A real fucking gig with a real fucking band.

You hear him say, "Thank you, we'll let you know," and you can't read anything in his tone. At all. But those eyes – those fucking eyes – blue and heated; black-lined and fucking ... something ... – seem to follow you all the way home.

Then you get the job. And your world _really_ changes.

The first thing you do is quit your fucking shitty job at Lime. Then you call your Mom, your sister, and all your friends. You go out, get wasted and wake up, hungover and sick, in Jon's bed.

"Fuck," you croak out after giving your lips a couple of passes with your tongue to unglue them. "What'd we do?"

Jon rolls over, looking bright-eyed as always, and it's really not fucking fair, how he never gets hangovers.

"Question is, Tommy Boy, what didn't we do? Can you walk?"

You shift cautiously as you can, but everything fucking hurts.

"Fuck."

"Appreciate the offer, Tommy Boy, but you gotta get up and get outta here. I got work."

Jon drops you off at your place and you sink back into sleep for most of the day.

It's the last quiet day you have, because after that, you're at the centre of a whirlwind. You're famous, suddenly, after Adam puts pictures of the band out on Twitter and fuck that's something else. It's like those dreams, a little bit, where you show up for school naked, but the whole world can see you. It's a mindfuck and you can't get your head around it at all.

You stop trying, after the AMAs. And yeah, okay, the kiss. The Kiss, as Jon calls it, the fucker, pissing himself laughing. And it really was just for public consumption. You get that. You do. Because you _have to_. You can't – you can't.

But here's the thing that no one knows: not Jon. Not your room-mate. Not the band. Especially not – God forbid – Adam. Here's the thing. You _want_. You want so badly you swear you can taste it. You can feel his skin under your fingertips because Adam's open, and has no idea what "personal space" is, which you wouldn't mind so much if your brain didn't short-wire to _want_ every _fucking_ time he touches you – on stage or off.

It gets worse as things start to pile up: talk shows; being cancelled from talk shows; appearances; Adam inviting you places like his ex-boyfriend's art show (and you _so_ don't want to go, but don't know how to say that, so you end up looking at pictures you don't understand and tracking Adam's every fucking move, cataloguing just how long he spends talking to Drake, and _why are you both even here if they broke up_), the Gaga concert; until you feel like you're going to crawl out of your fucking skin if something doesn't break soon.

What breaks, in the end, is you.

You get through New Year's okay, carried along on a tide of adrenaline by the show, and by alcohol, and by Adam being ... you don't even know, but that little fucking display at the end of the night where he expects you to just tow along like a good little boy _really_ fucks with your head in ways that none of your other interactions have.

AOL sessions. Fucking – fucking _Oprah_. And you can't breathe. _You can't breathe_.

Somehow you hold on, because, fuck, this is still everything you ever wanted. You're making a living out of music. _Making a living_. You've moved out of your shitty apartment into somewhere nicer – and brought Dave along because he's a good room-mate, and he's been good to you, and you've bought a car.

That part of your life – settled. Playing music. Making money. Yeah. But the rest – the fame that ... okay it's nice, mostly. Everybody likes attention. And for scrappy, mouthy little kids who grew up with the kind of attention that gets you beaten up for your lunch money, the kind of attention you're getting now, makes you think maybe it was all worth it.

Maybe.

Then tour rehearsals start. And you're glad, because it means focusing on something that you _understand_ \- that you can quantify: music. Performing. This you know. _This_ you can do. You tell yourself that the reason you're avoiding Jon right now is because you're so busy. And it's partly true.

The rest of it – the part that you've buried with Mike Jarvis and your sixteen-year-old-self – he'll see in an instant, and you can't deal with it. You won't.

Then the dancers start rehearsing for the show, and you break so fast and so fucking spectacularly, you wonder why it's taken you so long.

And it's nothing that you'd normally notice. Not really.

It's no big deal – at first. Dancers are added for a few of the numbers, and you don't really notice them at first, except for having to work around them on stage. No big deal.

Until you notice Adam flirting with one. A predictable, tiny, perfectly-formed brunette, who touches far too much for your liking, and who Adam starts spending all of his down time with.

The breakdown starts innocently enough. You fuck up the chords on Down the Rabbit Hole. Four times before Adam calls a break. You slide your bass off and lean it carefully against the wall before stalking out of the space. You're acting like a spoiled child, and you know it, but you can't fucking help it.

You saw them. You fucking _saw_ them; making out in Adam's dressing room. You recognised the guy's – okay fucking Ethan's – laughter, which is high and light – fucking shrill if anyone wants to ask you. The jealousy is sudden and sharp: like a knife sliding in, cold and easy but shocking all the same.

You try and tell yourself you have no right to be jealous. Adam's never had any reason – on stage stuff notwithstanding – to think that you're anything but straight. You talk about your ex-girlfriends with him, for fuck's sake. You bonded over your most recent break-ups, and _fuck_, you haven't had any kind of relationship since Sherri, really, and even Jon's giving up on calling you; his last message on your phone being: _when you stop being a fucking _asshole_ Tommy Joe, call me_ and you miss him.

Not the fucking, although with being around Adam, and having this dizzying fucking _want_ all the time, you probably wouldn't say no, but you don't even know how to get your friendship with Jon back at this point and that's what sucks the most because you've always had each other's backs in the past.

You slam out the back door and manage not to kick the wall, but what the _fuck_! You lean against it instead, the image of Adam's mouth on Ethan's fucking burned into your retinas. You start to realise that, maybe, you've fucked it up. Fucked _everything_ up because you clung to your sixteen-year-old's logic for so fucking long.

And you _want_.

You don't open your eyes when you hear the door. You know it's him. You don't need to look.

"What the fuck was that, Tommy?" Adam asks and you almost shiver because his voice is calm, but there's real anger rumbling just under the surface, like an earthquake out at sea.

The question is – the real question is – are you ready for it? Twenty-eight. Basically closeted, let's be brutally honest here. Maybe in love for the first time, you don't even know. Fame. Maybe even a little notoriety, who knows? Too many fucking maybes.

You open your eyes and turn to face him, taking in his eyes – ice-cold right now, with the black liner standing out stark, his mouth set and almost pinched, and he's frowning.

You don't know what to say. What do you say? And this really isn't the time, or the place.

"How serious are you about Ethan?" is what falls out, and what?  
"What? This is about _Ethan?_ What the fuck, Tommy? What's going on?"

"I ... we should get back," and, okay, yeah, that's fucking weak. But 12 years of not-dealing with this isn't going to go away with one hurried heart-to-heart.

"No," Adam says, sudden and sure. "I'm cancelling rehearsals for today. You and me – we need to talk."

And you want to argue, and just go back to playing, to something that you _get_, that you _understand_, but you know there's no point trying to talk him out of it.

He sends everyone home for the day, and no one minds really, because as fun as it's been, fuck, rehearsals have been kind of gruelling. But you know you're not getting the day off. Not really.

You pack up your bass and try not to look at where Adam's talking to Ethan, and you're really not looking to see if they're fighting. You're _not_.

But Ethan just shoots you a look, a half-shrug, like he's saying good luck, or something but you're a little too burned out to interpret it right now. You follow Adam to his car, and you drive back to his place in complete silence.

You don't even know where to _start_, but somehow you end up telling Adam everything, sitting in his living room, your fingers tight around a cold beer bottle, looking at his floor the whole time.

But it all comes out. Jackie Trent. Mike Jarvis. Fucking Ben Stark, who you used to make out with in the locker room after school, and who gave you your first blow job (Jackie never did that – didn't like it), and Jon; your ridiculously fucked-up friendship with Jon ...

"And now there's you," you say, finally meeting Adam's eyes, and you can't read the expression in them at all. "And I don't know what this means, or what it could do to me, or for me, but if I don't tell you this, I'm going to fall off the fucking rollercoaster and I won't be able to stop myself."

He takes a slow drink of his wine before putting the glass on the table.

"So – what you're telling me is – what are you telling me, Tommy? I'm still not sure. I mean – I sort of almost get some of it, but – I don't know what to think. I thought you weren't – I thought you weren't an _option_ for me. I stopped letting myself hope after you talked about your girlfriends, and then you dump this on me, and I don't know what to think. Or do."

You flop back against Adam's couch and stare at the ceiling. "I'm sorry. I couldn't have fucked this up more if I'd actually been trying to fuck this up. I just. I want to - "

He shifts closer and turns your head with his hand, his fingers lightly on your jaw. You watch some kind of internal struggle flit across his mobile face, and you would swear you see the moment when he thinks _oh, fuck it_. "I still don't know what to make of all of this, Tommy. But I know one thing: I know what you want. Because it's what _I_ want. Ethan's just – Ethan _was_ just a distraction, because it was getting too fucking hard to see you every day and not be able to – and now I find out I could have ..." Adam stops talking and you watch as his teeth catch his bottom lip, and he frowns again.

"If we do this ... you know we won't be able to keep it under wraps. Not for long. How do you feel about that?"

And there it is. There's the real question. How _do_ you feel about that? You search Adam's face, looking as deep as you can, and there's your answer right there in the blue: "I don't care. Not any more. It's stupid, and it's bullshit to live your life by some ... idea you had when you were 16. I want to be with you. _That's_ what I know."

Then his mouth is on yours, soft and sweet at first as you tangle your hand – finally – in his thick hair and pull him in closer, and closer, until there's no space between you at all.

The first person you tell is Jon: _hey, fucker. Sorry I've been an a-hole. Here's a pic 4 u_, and you send him one of you and Adam kissing, so Jon's in no doubt and he knows what it means: that all of your fucked-up parts have come together into one – admittedly still fucked-up – whole. Jon just sends a message back, asking to be the first to get the sex tape, and you know you're forgiven. You didn't know how much that meant to you until the message comes back – a weight you didn't know was there lifts right off you.

Being with Adam is like being on a rollercoaster: one of those really high ones that just rocket you down, and down, and down before shooting you up again. You still hate those fucking rides, but with someone beside you all the way – yeah. That works.


End file.
